[center][b][u]The Titans of Sea and Sky[/u][/b][/center]
	We are the Cewri, the Titans of Sea and Sky.  Once, we ruled.  Vast tracts of land, towering peaks, and violent rivers were held within our domain.  We have lost it all to our hubris.  For centuries, the Sky-Lord Amaethon gifted us with the power to call rain.  With our great magic, we could invoke the Sky-Lord’s name and he would quench the thirst of our crops.  Life was good, but we were not content.  We said to ourselves, “Why must Amaethon command the rain?  It is we who need rainfall to grow our crops, which we must eat to survive.”  And we tried to usurp the Sky-Lord’s domain.

	We succeeded.  Under our own power, we summoned rain.  This gross violation of Amaethon’s dignity brought his wrath down upon us.  He let us summon rain, but it would not stop.  Those who tried to stop it were turned to ash by lightning, and all the rest of us prayed.  For weeks on end the torrential downpours came, flooding deep valleys, consuming great fortresses, and we were left only with the Frozen Tombs atop our tallest mountains.  It was then that our prayers were answered.  The Sky-Lord spoke to us through the thunder above our heads, commanding that all those who remained that had brought the abomination of our godless rain into the world be cast into the sea.  It was done, and the Sea-Lord Llyr sent mighty beasts from the depths to consume them, and the Sky-Lord spared us.

	But the waters would not recede.  A dream was visited upon one of us—my Great-Grandfather, then in his prime—where the Sea-Lord commanded that we build great ships to carry us to new lands.  Massive trees, my Great-Grandfather was told, had been uprooted from far below the depths, and had floated up to us so that we might fulfill the Sea-Lord’s command.  They emerged to see if said trees had arrived, and they had, but that was not the only change.  Where once our skin had been the color of grain, and our hair like the rivers of our homeland, we hand emerged to find that we had been changed.  Our skin was now the Deep blue of the sea, and out hair shone white like ice.  We had been marked, chosen, to live on beyond the destruction of our once-proud homeland.

	That was three generations ago.  My Great-Grandfather had been declared the leader of the survivors, his vision—a divine blessing—had marked him as the gods' chosen.  We of his line have lead the Cewri ever since.  Sailing from one island to another, scraping by on what the Sea-Lord would lead us to, and consigning our dead to Llyr’s Deep Realm.  That is, until today.  We have found a new continent.  One where life is vibrant, and it stand as proof that the gods have forgiven us of our hubris.  From the ships that have brought s here, we have constructed the Pantref Y Obaith Terfynol—The Village of the Last Hope—on a the inner coast of a small island on the northwestern edge of said continent, and have designs on the mountain nearby.  The ceremonies by which we once entreated the Sky-Lord for rain have been long forgotten, as has so much else.  We now must survive by our own power and determination, or else the Cewri will be forgotten to the Frozen Past.